Travel to Naran – September 2025:
A bright sunny day in Islamabad, we set off for Naran for the opening of GreenPak Riverfront Resort. Commonly known as PTDC Naran, it had unfortunately remained closed since 2019. My last visit to Naran was during Eid holidays, while crossing Babusar on my way to Gilgit-Baltistan. Back then, I was stuck in traffic for hours. Naran felt like a true example of over-tourism and rowdy tourism, with a concrete jungle vibe. Most of the time was spent staring at endless traffic jams, and I did not enjoy a bit of it (you may go through my previous travelogue on Naran). This time, however, the experience was entirely different.
Fear of rains had delayed our visit for a couple of weeks. Islamabad had witnessed heavy downpours, and everyone warned me not to go—landslides, poor road conditions, high river flow, cloudbursts, and “climate change” were the buzzwords. To top it off, irresponsible social media only amplified the panic. But what I experienced was altogether different. Once we hit the motorway, within 40 minutes we were on Hazara Motorway. Another two hours of a lovely drive followed, becoming more beautiful as we passed Abbottabad and Mansehra. What was heartbreaking, however, was the massive mountain cutting near Hasanabdal and further along Hazara Motorway. Our favorite Guppa mountains, once lush and green, were being torn apart by crushing machines. I remembered my geography teacher, Ms. Aziz (now living in the US), who used to say mountains are like the nails of the earth. Remove the nails and the earth trembles. Locals call it legal mining, but is it really legal when you play with Mother Nature? Revenge will be harsh if we do not change our laws and let the law of the Almighty prevail.
What has always fascinated me is Siran Valley—it feels like a vegetable basket. But I was surprised to learn that there is still no direct link between KKH and the Mansehra–Balakot route. You have to pass through small villages and fields of elephant grass before hitting the Kaghan–Naran road. Passing along the Kunhar River and Batrasi, you cross Jabba. Allah has His ways—remember the cowardly Indian bombing here, which they shamelessly called “Balakot”? Bitter memories remain, but how different the scene looks now. As I approached Balakot, I was shocked to see hotels shuttered. Once buzzing with fish lovers and travelers heading into Kaghan Valley, now only 1–2 were open out of around 50. Near Balakot, I crossed a small sliding area where an excavator was at work. Media had projected it as a “big slide,” yet it took me less than three minutes to pass. Soon we reached our GreenPak Resort Balakot—a charming hut-style property offering possibly the best accommodation and dining in the area.
I asked locals about the closures. They said panic had been created in Karachi and Lahore due to news of floods, and visitors stayed away. The reality: hardly anything had happened in Balakot or even up to Naran. I met my old friend, Havaldar Mazhar, an ex-SSG guard who now runs a mobile shop in Balakot. He told me the panic destroyed local business and jobs. “We have no voice to tell people things aren’t as bad as projected,” he said.
We continued toward Naran—no rain, no blockages. To be precise, we must have crossed only 5–6 tourist cars. Hotels were closed or waiting for guests. Passing ITZ Ganool and my favorite pine & cedar nursery (last time I bought 20 plants, all thriving now), I was again surprised. Sukhi–Kenari, once gushing with glacial waters, was dry. I was told the glaciers had melted earlier this year, and unlike the past when they lasted till the next snowfall, water is now scarce. How to explain this is beyond comprehension.
A pleasant surprise: a brand-new asphalt road from Balakot almost till Naran. Nobody mentioned this! Well done NHA. We left Islamabad at 8 a.m. and reached Naran at 2 p.m.—including two cigarette and tea stops. At Mansehra’s motorway rest area, I thought: what a beautiful stop! With some better-designed shops, it could rival any in the world.
Naran itself was deserted. No jeep drivers, no hoteliers chasing customers. The bypass, once chaotic in peak season, was calm. A strange happiness filled me—it felt like the Naran of old. Yet I felt sorry for the business loss. Maybe this is a pause to rethink tourism: fewer but better-quality hotels, cultural focus, cleaner spaces—not loud dhols and degchas for mass tourism.
At GreenPak Riverfront Resort, I got down to explore on foot. This property is iconic and dear to us. My third visit here reminded me of the offers of billions we rejected because they meant commercial construction. The architect, Dadi R. Surti, a Gujarati from Karachi, built this spacious resort on 162 kanals of thick jungle along the river. It has a lavish reception, a 50-seat restaurant, a coffee shop, a boardroom, riverside huts, cabanas, Surti huts, economy huts, and a 19-room structure. We have kept the classic stone-and-wood style while adding modern touches. The lawns, walnut and conifer trees, and riverside setting make it breathtaking. Even passerby tourists can use our paid toilets. This is not a promo travelogue—it truly is a resort. Opening on 6th September, it felt good to revive something once left for dead.
The resort also has a mountain top with three cottages, which we plan to restore next season. I walked uphill, remembering my mother’s stories of our elder, Sardar Shaukat Hayat, who once owned the place. As a child, I came here by jeep. Even today, it takes 15–30 minutes on foot to reach. The cottages are in a neglected state. We have been cruel—building multi-storey blocks while letting such treasures rot. From the top, I looked down at Naran, now lost to big names and big structures.
Later, we walked toward Lake Saif-ul-Maluk, stopping at Sarai Resort. It was almost empty, with staff happily playing cricket. Its lawns and river view were stunning. The manager told me Saif-ul-Maluk has shrunk badly. He requested a road to the lake. I replied, “Do we want to spoil it further?” I suggested instead a chairlift—clean and efficient. Jeep drivers oppose any new road anyway.
I saw some resorts built unaesthetically, others still under construction on mountain slopes. Water pipes ran haphazardly, no proper parking, no tourism police. Fairly clean overall, though I spotted Gujjars camping disorderly—with donkeys even carrying solar plates. We have so many authorities, including the Kaghan Development Authority. I have met its chairman. The question remains: how to empower them—or limit them—so tourism becomes sustainable?
From there we drove to Batakundi to see Serene Resort, a massive, well-kept property owned by Pir Arshad Shah. He shared his views: Naran needs a four-lane highway, media should stop fearmongering, Babusar should remain open year-round, new trekking trails toward Kohistan and Sharda via Jalkhad are needed, and foreigners must be attracted. He also mentioned locals resist tree plantation, fearing land loss. Only the Forest Department plants trees. It saddened me—I haven’t even seen birds in Naran. Where is the Wildlife Department?
Finding no rush, we drove into Naran Bazaar. To my surprise, it was relatively clean and lively. The government must support symmetry here, like Punjab is doing. I was happy to see new public toilets being built—hopefully kept paid and maintained.
We returned to the resort after a long day. Dinner, then retiring into our cabana, where I woke to the rustling cedar trees and the chants of the river.
Lt Gen (R) Sardar Hassan Azhar Hayat, MD Green Tourism
